


Suffice

by coeurgryffondor



Series: The way you look at me [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 16th Century CE, 16th century fuckboys, F/M, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Historical, Multi, Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, Transgender Poland (Hetalia), no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coeurgryffondor/pseuds/coeurgryffondor
Summary: 1573, him: Toris just wants to have something belong to him. Just one thing. Just one something. And right now, his name must suffice.1573, her: Camille needed him to at the very least respect her wishes to have control over her name, over herself, at least from her brother if from no one else. Just this one thing and no more: and right now, her name must suffice.





	Suffice

> My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness. –2 Corinthians 12:9

# 1573, him

His eyes desperately scan the room for a way out, a place to hide, something — anything. Feliks had long ago abandoned him out of a combination of boredom, forgetfulness, and excitement at New Things (not that Toris blamed him or was surprised) and Toris really, really didn’t want to speak with more French nobles.

Yet here he was.

In Paris.

In a room full of French nobles.

He did not make good choices in life.

At this point, seeing Francis de Bonnefoy and upsetting him with his terrible French was something Toris could only hope to look forward to — until he looks forward and finds something else that stops him.

The fireplace is huge, and she looks so small before it, just as lost as him, just as alone as him — just as hungry to escape as he is. But unlike him, she belongs: she looks the part, she’s dressed the part, she holds herself… oh wow, she is really beautiful, and the longer Toris looks (well, stares), the faster his heart beats and the sweater his palms become and the harder it is to look away.

Then someone bumps him and he loses sight of her.

Toris is used to being invisible. Feliks, on good days, forgot he was there. And that was fine, Toris had had his rush of power and control, he didn’t want that anymore. Lithuanian did, sure, but Toris just wanted to go home with his husband who would beg to be dressed up and called his wife, and Toris would because what did he care so long as Feliks/Felicja was happy, secrets he would take to the grave to protect the person he loves. Toris just wanted to be a good husband.

He’s not sure, though, that he’s good at anything.

The jostling of people pushes him towards the wall with the fireplace; Toris takes that to mean his new grand duke had arrived, the new French prince elected Polish king. Because Poland did what Poland wanted, and Toris knows his thoughts don’t matter so why dwell on them.

Why do anything?

He didn’t have control.

He’s pushed again, and he wouldn’t care except he bumps into someone smaller than him pretty hard, and he turns to apologize when suddenly he freezes and oh my God it’s her, before him, his hand at her elbow, her hand on his arm.

She’s even more stunning up close.

Shame of staring should have kicked in by now, but she stares back as well, and so Toris takes her in — the sweep of her neck, her light blonde hair, her big blue eyes, her soft ivory skin, the gentleness that pervades her form — and falls even more deeply under whatever spell this is, and maybe coming to France with Feliks wasn’t such a waste to look upon one woman who looked at him like he was a man, a real honest-to-God man who was capable of great things still.

Someone who looked at him as he was, and that alone was an exhilarating feeling, to be laid naked and bare before another like this.

Without thought (his brain stopped several minutes ago), his free hand reaches out to stroke her cheek. Gently, very gently, the back of his knuckles against her cheek and the line of her jaw, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening again.

If he could die looking in those eyes, Toris would know it was God’s blessing.

“I do not like the way you look at me, Sir,” and her voice is quiet and her French is perfect and Toris stutters for a moment, having forgotten she wasn’t Lithuanian, before speech kicks in, slowly and stupidly.

“Wh– what? Why?” His hand at the point where neck and shoulder meet fall to his side, and his other arms tries to join it but she grips him then, and smiles, and Toris is in love before she says,

“You see me as I am, and is it not terrifying to be laid naked and bare before another?”

“I am finding, my lady, that I quite enjoy the sensation.”

Laughter dies in her throat as a man comes to her side, and then it all starts to click together, and Toris really is a moron as Francis de Bonnefoy smiles and wraps an arm around the woman.

Of course: anything beautiful in this country belonged either to the royals or to Francis. What chance did Toris ever have?

“Laurinaitis,” and Francis sticks out a hand and they shake and the woman’s gaze changes, becomes more critical, searching of him.

Well, it was lovely to imagine he was loved by her for those brief moments.

“Where is your husband?” the Frenchman asks and now she’s looking at her hands, at the floor, head bowed, and Toris would murder Francis if he wasn’t painfully aware of the fact that if someone else hadn’t screwed up his chances with the woman before him, he’d have screwed them up himself.

“Speaking with his new king, I believe.”

“Is my dear Henri not your new king as well?”

“Grand duke,” Toris corrects lamely.

“Ah.” Francis smiles and there is venom in it and Toris knows Francis knew that. He doesn’t know, though, why Francis said what he’d said. “But where are my manners! Bof!” His hold around the woman tightens, a squeeze that catches her off guard, and her angelic face looks up at the Frenchman who pinches her chin. “Allow me to introduce, my love, Toris Laurinaitis.” No title, just his name; he should probably be annoyed by that, offended even. If he'd introduced the man as “Francis de Bonnefoy,” he’d probably never hear the end of it — how he was a prince and a duke and a peer of France and this and that and the other thing. Even Feliks always made sure people said prince of Poland and understood his special status in the noble class, even though Toris was also granted that privilege and weren’t all nobles in Poland-Lithuania equal under Golden Liberty?

But it doesn’t offend him, because he is Laurinaitis, not his titles, not his history, not his country. He is a man with a name that most people cannot say and a name he doesn’t even like all that much — Artūras Laurinaitis — but it’s his name and Toris only has so much in this world, this name and his nickname that isn’t even a name and in that way makes it all the more his and his alone, perhaps the only thing in the world that is his and his alone.

Toris just wants to have something belong to him. Just one thing. Just one something. And right now, his name must suffice.

He dips his head to the woman, bowing feeling too formal after their intimate look and touch, but doing nothing feeling too informal in this room of formality and procedure and Frenchmen tripping over themselves and their sense of superiority, the man before him the antithesis of Toris but the archetype of those in the room.

The archetype of what a woman like the one before him must want.

“Laurinaitis, allow me to introduce to you my beloved, my darling, my dearest, my sweetest, my kindest–” does she roll her eyes? Toris’s heart is racing for Francis to just say it “–my one, my only, the love of my life: my sister, Camille.”

…

…

…

( w h a t ‽ )

On the inside, Toris is a God damn mess of freaking out and losing control. On the outside, he is drawn together eyebrows and sweaty armpits and blushing cheeks and probably, quite obviously, what he is on the inside.

The woman seems to smirk, and it all becomes worse.

“Si– sister?” he forces out weakly, looking at Francis for fear of looking at this goddess before him who is the man’s sister, his sister!, and Francis was many things but he was not incestuous and everyone — literally all of their kind — knew Francis adored his sister like he adored nothing and no one else.

Which, if anything, might make the whole situation worse. Toris already had a long list of people who wanted to see him dead; did he really need to add Francis de Bonnefoy to the list? Why couldn’t she have just been his lover and made this easy on the Lithuanian?

“Is the fair princess of Monaco not all you had hoped for?” Francis laughs in his Francis-laugh which is grating and relieving at once, pulling his sister close and kissing her cheek, and her eyes squish closed and she makes as if to resist but still Toris sees her relax into the embrace and rest her hands — hands that had touched him — on her brother to touch him too, to take an active part in his hold.

Camille.

Camille de Bonnefoy, princess of Monaco.

Who knew perfection had such a name?

Later he’d swear he was about to respond — “More so” — which is probably a lie, but it doesn’t matter as someone bounds up next to him and grabs his arm and he knows the feeling of just being near Feliks enough to know it’s him before they even touch.

“Łukasiewicz,” Francis greets, “how are you?”

“Excellent,” the man replies and Toris knows that means something has happened. He tries to pay attention to the Pole, tries to reassure him in their silent language they’ve developed that Toris is here, Toris understands: soon Toris will take Feliks home and pull out the clothes Feliks — Felicja — is meant to wear, the clothes that mark a nobleman’s pretty wife, and he’ll make love to her and they’ll pretend they can be like this forever. He tries.

But he is still distracted.

“Then I shall leave you two to it with your new king,” Francis coos, drawing his sister closer. “The queen mother will be anxious to hear what has happened to her most beloved son and my brother in blood, and I am certain the queen and the king’s sister eagerly awaits my sister’s company returned to them.”

Feliks moves further into the room, and Francis moves to a dark corner where there is a door, and for a moment Toris and this beauty of beauties are alone once more before one another, eyes locked, and something in the woman is so sad, so mournful, as if she was drinking him in in preparation for never seeing him again.

Do something!, Toris’s mind shouts, so he takes her hand and bows properly and kisses it with lips lingering on her knuckles, cool metal and precious stones rubbing against his short beard, and when he stands she is flustered and blushing and breathless, and Toris smiles and Camille smiles and then she is gone and Toris knows he will love her until the day he dies.

* * *

# 1573, her

Her eyes desperately scan the room for a way out, a place to hide, something — anything. Francis had long ago abandoned her out of a combination of oozing eminence, hidden desperation, and excitement for his friend (and possibly lover, Camille wouldn’t be surprised) and Camille really, really didn’t want to speak with more French nobles.

Yet here she was.

In Paris.

In a room full of French nobles.

She did not make good choices in life.

Maybe she should just leave — would anyone notice? The only people who cared about her were her brother, the Grimaldi family, and whichever men of their kind were currently or attempting to become one of her many lovers.

She hated all of them.

And now here she was, celebrating the leaving of a man she had hoped to ensnare and make her own — Henri de France was a horrid man in many ways but my God! was he handsome and sensual, and so long as she wasn’t certain her brother was already his lover, his attractiveness remained — another failure in the life of Camille de Monaco.

Perhaps she would write Arthur tonight. Start off complaining about Francis (to draw him in), then about the religious wars (which were insufferable to her but for reasons she knew were not pure), then she would talk about her loneliness and how she missed his company, his masculine presence, the safety she felt with him. She would talk about how cold she was at night in her bed, and how she would imagine him beside her, holding her, as he once had. How she fantasized about him stealing her away and making passionate love to her and how big and thick he was and how no man felt better than him and how she wanted to be with him forever (which would surely keep him masturbating for a while to the thought of her).

That would work nicely: it would piss of Francis, Antonio, and Roderich.

But would Gilbert be a better choice? He was another viable option to contemplate as she avoids a crowd by moving towards the unlit fireplace everyone was giving such a wide berth to. It was a lovely fireplace, too, which made it all the more a pity that everyone was attracted to the stupid king’s heir and newly declared King of Poland and Grand Duke of Lithuania. At the same time, it was a lovely September day in Paris, and all these people were inside when they could be outside, enjoying nature, enjoying the kingdom, enjoying a moment of peace in their wars.

Then again, surely the men in this room were more responsible for the bloodshed and violence than any group of men ought ever be.

No, Camille had no stomach for their wars. She wanted to go home, to her brother’s home, in Clermont where he had a fireplace even more magnificent than this one and they would sit beside it and just be: just be them, just be siblings, just be children who had buried their mother on one of the mountains around the city a millennium earlier, near where their grandfather had been buried.

How could you miss a place of so much grief like this? It hurt her, caused an ache to swell in her chest, over a woman Camille couldn’t even remember, needed Francis to tell her stories of. Camille has never had a father, accepted long ago that he had probably been some mortal meant to anger a Germanic husband, but still she liked to imagine her parents had been in love, for even just a day, for even just a moment.

Had anyone ever loved Camille? They’d said they had, but men said lots of stupid things.

Had she ever loved anyone? Camille isn’t sure she can anymore. Maybe she was born slightly defective, just like her brother. Maybe it was part of being a Bonnefoy, their bad faith.

She looks around once more, wanting to find her brother just to signal to him in their silent language that she was leaving and he wasn’t to worry, but instead someone falls against her and my God! it hurts, nearly knocks her over, she was a small woman who was sheltered and tended to and controlled by others. The jostling of men for her affection was one thing: the jostling of men physically demanding of her was quite another.

But it was part of being invisible, and who saw Camille when she stood beside Francis? Beside Antonio? Beside Roderich? She blended into the decor, into the sheets of the bed, the woman servants avoided looking at, the woman nobles and diplomats pretended wasn’t a slut. But they thought it. Oh, they thought it, and Camille hated them for it. She was no slut: she was owner of her body, despite what might happen to Monaco. There was Genoa and France and Spain and always someone else to say you are mine, but Camille was no one’s.

It was a point of pride that, though she be small, though she be invisible, though she be no virgin nor even a kind and merciful noblewoman, she was no one’s.

Maybe that was why she couldn’t love.

She didn’t have control, after all — larger kingdoms did what larger kingdoms wanted — and she knew her thoughts didn’t matter in such affairs, so why dwell on what had been done to her? Why do anything, really? Especially when her inactions so angered Antonio, the current target of her hatred. Why do anything when you didn’t have control?

Why not just follow your brother around and then leave early and then sit alone and then write lies to men to pretend like you are someone you are not?

It passed the time, and Camille had time aplenty.

As to the man who had fallen against her, Camille gives up on fighting because it took so much effort and why do anything, and then a hand catches her elbow to steady her as she stumbles and when she looks up, he is the most breathtakingly beautiful man she has ever seen on God’s green earth.

Maybe she could love; maybe she had just never met him before.

His skin shows a life spent outside, his hair and short beard are dark, his build is more muscular than most nobles’ in the room, and something in him is kind and lost and hopeless and hopeful, and then his green eyes meet her blue ones and she can’t breathe, this man is perfect, this man is perfect, this man is perfect.

Her body begins to shiver under the force of his gaze, how he seems to see through her clothing and artificial barriers she’d set up to keep men away from her. It is intense and it is true and Camille doesn’t think anyone, perhaps not even Francis, has looked at her like this: like she was a woman, a real honest-to-God woman — not Monaco, not Francis’s sister, not the highest trophy their kind had to pass around — a woman who was capable of great things, if only allowed to be who she was.

It is terrifying to see herself as he sees her: to see who she truly is.

One hand still holds her elbow, and she can’t help but place her hand on his arm — the muscles beneath are erotic and just right, not too strong like Antonio returned from battle, not too soft like Roderich returned from his piano — to touch him in return, the heat of his skin seeming to rise through his doublet’s sleeves. His other hand strokes her cheek, ever so gently, and her eyes flutter closed to fully drink in the sensation of this man she was already sure was her everything touching her, to imagine they were alone in her room and she might strip in and he might strip her and then they might make love and never again would she think of Antonio and Roderich and Arthur and Gilbert, of Henry of France and Ernest of Austria and Henry of Navarre and Philip of Spain.

Her eyes open, and there’s something in his gaze that is too much and yet just right.

“I do not like the way you look at me, Sir.” Her voice is quiet, so it cannot be heard to shake, and her French is perfect, so it cannot be mistaken that she does not belongs here. She was Monegasque, she was Monaco, but still — she belonged, as someone who was born in France, someone who was French, someone who also owned some piece in the outcome of the Kingdom of France.

The pause is kind of slightly too long, his face contorting oddly, and she can see him thinking, Camille fighting laughing at him. So he wasn’t French — but it didn’t matter. She could love him regardless.

“Wh– what? Why?” His hand that he had rested at the base of her neck, a finger against her collarbone, falls away; she had said the wrong thing. (Damn it! She had moved beyond these mistakes!) Instinctually she grips him, and to calm her heart she smiles as if to lie to herself that she was in control and her heart wasn’t racing wildly.

“You see me as I am, and is it not terrifying to be laid naked and bare before another?”

There’s a pause, and he quirks one of those delicious eyebrows, and he quirks one corner of that delicious mouth, and he half sighs, half confesses, “I am finding, my lady, that I quite enjoy the sensation.”

Oh God, she didn’t even know his name and she was in too deep. Perhaps she was her mother’s child after all; perhaps her parents had only had a day together but, if it had been anything like this, what a day it would have been.

She starts to laugh — at his response, at her thoughts, at the world — but then she senses her brother behind her, beside her, and he wraps an arm around her because he is a possessive brother but where was he when Francis de France was hitting on her? Maybe he was a lover of the prince’s older brother after all, spoiling Camille’s chance at getting a future king before there was a wife to feel guilty about. Henri de France might have even married her, if she’d played her cards right, but no: her brother had to stop her.

In the future, with hindsight, she would probably be grateful, but for now she is bitter at her lost chance with a French royal and her soon-to-be-lost chance with the man before her, because her brother was going to gloat and show her off and then only a fool of a mortal would continue to speak to her let alone pursue her.

“Laurinaitis,” and the name rings a bell somewhere in the back of Camille’s mind as the men shake hands. Why? She looks him over for some clue, some… something she had missed. Who was he? Why was there something familiar about him? “Where is your husband?”

My God! she can’t look at him now, knowing who he is, knowing what she had missed. My God, she felt dumb, bowing her head and looking at the floor before she realizes that that means she has an excellent view of his rather nicely sized codpiece and so she joins her hands together instead, twirling her rings on her fingers to concentrate on something other than the thought of what it would feel like to strip his hose and codpiece from him and pump his manhood with her delicate hands and suck him into her mouth before he pounded into her… it wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all for either him or her brother to see the flush of her face.

Her rings and something else to distract her mind then: she had plenty of each.

This one from Francis for a reunion gift. The most recent union of Poland and Lithuania was only part of a long history the two nations shared together though Poland, from what Camille could tell and Roderich had said, was the dominant country in that almost-marriage.

This one from Antonio for allowing him to call her his lover. Gilbert had said that the commonwealth was very diverse in its people and, unlike France (of course it was the Protestant to tell her this), had greater religious tolerance. Well the bar was quite low in France, Camille would be the first to tell you that.

“Speaking with his new king, I believe.”

This one from Roderich for becoming his favorite mistress (and to buy her silence so Erzsébet didn’t find out). The Habsburgs had put forward their own man to be elected monarch but the Valois had won out instead, much to her Austrian lover’s annoyance. But Camille understood: they had to check the Habsburgs, and they seemed to want the Ottomans to ally with them, and the Ottomans were already allies of the French; therefore, it was logical that they would align themselves with the French.

This one from Arthur for embarrassing Francis at the Field of the Cloth of Gold. From ambassadors and letters, rumor had reached her that the Poles had elected their new king without Lithuanian nobles — an interesting start to a union of equals, but Camille understood this too. After all, were two people ever truly equal? Men could say they meant it, and they might even, but they always were more than her in some way, and she had to take it as a woman, and the Lithuanians had to confirm the Polish king as their new grand duke. Camille understood all too well.

“Is my dear Henri not your new king as well?”

This one from Henri de France, which Camille had taken as a sign to pursue him. Now he was to marry Anna Jagiellon, and live far away despite being the French king’s heir even now, and Camille still isn’t sure she even likes him but he cannot be as bad as the other men she has been mistress to before. Nice things were what she deserved; nice men she did not.

“Grand duke,” and the man before her is weak in his correction of her brother.

This last one she had bought herself. It was her favorite ring.

“Ah.” Francis was fucking with him and they all knew it. Why, she couldn’t understand; maybe he had seen the two talking earlier and wanted to put an end to it as he possibly had to her and Henri. “But where are my manners! Bof!”

She’s slightly startled when her brother squeezes her tightly, and she looks to him with confusion and annoyance only to have him pinch her cheek. (Big brothers, so annoying.) “Allow me to introduce, my love, Toris Laurinaitis–” but she knew that already, and Francis knew that already too. Hadn’t even said his title, which was… well, that Camille didn’t know. Presumably ducal, their kind typically had the highest of ranks in their homes: Camille as a princess of Monaco, Francis as a prince and duke and peer of France. If the man before her whom, even now, she cannot look at for fear of what she’ll do — if the man before her was a duke, then they were mostly equal. They could have an affair and it wouldn’t be such a scandal.

They could maybe even get married, except he was married already, and to a man, and did he even like women? Camille wanted to hold out hope but, more realistically, Camille had to stop fucking married men: they had less money for jewelry to lay upon her and she didn’t like hurting (most) other women as she sought out her own power. (Some of their kind, however, she’s still yet to make her mind up on.)

And now she had to wait for her brother to do that thing he always did even though she asked him not to: to call her Camille de Bonnefoy.

Which she was.

But also which she wasn’t.

His eye catches her and she pleads in her gaze for him to understand, to remember, to know what it is she needs him to do. He could screw up her getting this Adonis of a man to her bed, sure, but she needed him to at the very least respect her wishes to have control over her name, over herself, at least from her brother if from no one else.

Just this one thing and no more: and right now, her name must suffice.

The man before her dips his head, which is cute in its own way, though it does require her to look at him, and when she catches his eye again, she can hardly breathe, her brother far away as he begins his affectionate yet obnoxious monologue of attention. “Laurinaitis, allow me to introduce to you my beloved, my darling, my dearest, my sweetest, my kindest–” she rolls her eyes to signal he was to get on with it “–my one, my only, the love of my life: my sister, Camille.”

She is so very grateful in that moment to her brother for having understood, and she squeezes his arm to feel him squeeze her side in return. You could say a lot of things about Francis de Bonnefoy, and most of them would be true as well as boring compared to his secrets she knew, but more than anything else everyone knew he loved his sister, his sister most of all.

Feeling she has gazed sufficiently at her brother and that any more would inflate his already massive ego, she shifts to the Lithuanian instead who looks torn between throwing up, running away, and shouting something embarrassing. It makes her smile, to know he’s as out of control on the inside as she is.

“Si– sister?” he manages lamely, looking from Camille to Francis, and for some reason this was making her relax. He was as unsure and panicked as she was, and flustered despite having a husband.

Interesting. She could work with this.

No!, a small voice in her mind chides. He is not Antonio or Roderich or Arthur or Gilbert, do not treat him as you would them.

“Is the fair princess of Monaco not all you had hoped for?” her brother laughs, pulling her close and kissing her cheek, and she pretends to resist but really she enjoys the affection, that he knows how to treat his little Franco-Monegasque sister so as to inflate her ego a little bit too. They were siblings, after all, and siblings shared good qualities and bad ones alike.

Something in his embrace says he won’t stop her, so she touches his arm and chest to say thank you. She would have also wished him a good night fucking or being fucked by Henri de France until one of them was raw, but didn’t think their sibling language included a way to express that without words. They could correct that mistake later.

She wants to hear his response, Camille wants to hear what the Lithuanian man would say of her in front of her brother, her mood high, until someone joins the trio and it’s his husband and now the moment is ruined, Camille squeezing her brother’s hand to beg him to save her, to get her out of what she had gotten herself into because she could not stand it if the man before her she adored so much looked upon his husband as he had looked upon her. Then she would have no faith in any man, and she wasn’t quite Catholic enough for a nunnery.

“Łukasiewicz,” her brother says with a smile of controlled detest on behalf of his sister, “how are you?”

“Excellent,” the man quips with none of his (apparently) usual enthusiasm, if Gilbert was to be believed. (Debatable.) But the word changes the dark haired man, and Camille realizes that the married pair too have a secret, silent language, watching its only speakers converse quickly in it.

“Then I shall leave you two to it with your new king,” Francis coos to break their attention, drawing Camille close to escort her from the situation. “The queen mother will be anxious to hear what has happened to her most beloved son and my brother in blood, and I am certain the queen and the king’s sister eagerly awaits my sister’s company returned to them.”

Untrue: only the one whose brother Camille was having sex with liked her. Marguerite de France was too smart and too like Camille in too many ways for them to get along, but they respected each other at least. Steered clear of the other.

The Polish man moves briskly from them, and Francis squeezes her hand one last time before moving off to exit the room. But Camille lingers, wanting to look once more at the man before her and knowing all the same that it was a mistake, so she means to do it quickly until she finds those eyes again and she can’t.

She can’t look away.

Why couldn’t he be hers?

Why couldn’t she have her greatest mistake?

The princess takes in as much as she can, knowing she will probably never seen him again: Berwald, the once; Ivan, the once; Sadık, the once. They probably would have disappointed her as the others had, had she been able to spend more time with them, and perhaps the man before her would too, but she will never know and so she does what her heart commands she must and takes him in, and takes him in, and her brain says stop but she persists as she takes him in.

She’s startled when he takes her hand, bowing properly, as a man ought to to a woman, and presses his lips to her knuckles in a kiss — to the finger that wears her favorite ring. She’s flustered and her face is burning and her breathing is gone again, her lungs now only for internal decoration, and he stands and Toris smiles and Camille smiles and then she turns to leave and Camille knows she will love him until the day she dies.


End file.
